


Tenner

by notvictor



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asshole Sherlock, Busking, Drugs, Gambling, Homeless Sherlock, M/M, Poker, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock Plays the Violin, Sherlock is a Mess, Viclock, Victor Trevor Being Nice, homeless by choice, i should clarify
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-20
Updated: 2017-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-18 16:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3576681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notvictor/pseuds/notvictor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes knows nothing of kindness until a stranger starts throwing ten pound notes into his violin case every time he passes by, and, as usual, Sherlock knows nothing of keeping himself out of trouble. Those two things would end up having more to do with each other than he'd like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time it happened was on a Monday.

A man with curly hair – whom Sherlock deduced had just gotten a new job, considering that his state of dress looked wildly out of place on these streets – dropped a whole ten pound note into his violin case amongst a bunch of coins. He smiled wide and genuine as he did it, and Sherlock just looked away.

The man had stopped to watch him play. Which was fine, of course; Sherlock played just as well with a set of curious eyes on him as not. If the man wanted to waste his precious time walking to work to observe a busking violinist, he was more than welcome.

Sherlock eyed up the man's smile perplexedly as his song ended, soon just nodding his head in thanks when he realised the other was not about to falter under his scrutiny. The man nodded back and finally seemed to take that as his cue to leave.

Sherlock stared after him as he walked away.

That was not the usual, by far.

He _usually_ only got pitied stares and rough, hushed words thrown in his direction, sometimes a few pence added to the mix between sporadic, near weekly violin sessions out on his self-proclaimed section of sidewalk.

He _usually_ didn't get a damn cent on warmer days when his sleeves were short enough to expose his skin. Though he supposed that was his own fault, he never really did much to hide the track marks visible in the crook of his elbow, trailing up his forearm, on his wrists.

Enough said, Sherlock's life was not one of ease. At least not at the moment. He was, as his brother had remarked, 'not in a good place'. The issue was that he found everything to be a waste of time unless it was personally interesting and/or potentially life-threatening, and university lectures fell under neither of those categories while a particular substance fell under both.

After one more performance and a few more pity pounds thrown in his case, he decided that it was time to pack up his instrument. He slipped that one pink-gray note out and into a pocket. Perhaps he'd use it for a nice(ish) dinner, who knew.

As he carried his violin up the old, withered steps of a familiar building that was not his home, he resolved that he wasn't going to buy anything. He was just going to use the kid's bathroom to clean up. Nothing more, nothing less. He was welcome there, of course, along with a handful of other transients who filtered in and out on a daily basis, to either crash on spare mattresses or wash up or buy and occasionally sell his products.

The kid who owned the place was only nineteen and more successful than Sherlock had ever been at that age, with a whole business set up by himself with money to spare on his much lower income customers. For comparison, all Sherlock had been at nineteen was a tired, bored, melancholic disaster with chemistry homework.

Sherlock was greeted as he placed his violin case on the ground. He straightened up to shake hands with Raph. "Hey, man. I don't mean to rush you, but are you spending the night?"

"I wasn't intending on it."

"Well, either way, listen. I decided that if you need a place to keep your violin overnight while you're out, you can keep it in my personal room again."

"Yes." Sherlock nodded his head readily. "Yes, thank you." Last time Sherlock had spent the night there when nearly all of the mattresses had been claimed, Raph had allowed him to store his violin away from all the others, just to make sure that it was safe while he slept. Apparently the kid had an affinity for instruments, thanks to a younger sibling who played the cello.

Drug dealing aside, Raph was genuinely interested in the well-being of the people around him. It was almost sweet.

Talking to Raph – his full first name was Raphael – just put Sherlock on the fast track to self-destruction all over again, thoughts of that relatively nice dinner and the kind stranger who had attempted to make that possible thrown out the window.

So he bought his next hit. Why the fuck not, he deserved it.

Sherlock went into the bathroom and took one of the sterilized, individually wrapped needles for himself that Raph always had stocked away in the medicine cabinet. When he closed the cabinet door, he stopped a moment to look at himself, then pulled at the bags under his eyes in the mirror. They made him look perpetually tired.

He looked like he needed a hit, was what he looked like.

Sherlock undid his belt as he walked out of the bathroom, his bare feet sticking to linoleum flooring with the sealed needle held in his mouth.

He then sat down on an available mattress and laid back with a deep, deep sigh.

*********

Waking up the morning after felt more like his body was in an advanced stage of decay, like he'd be able to just peel the skin off of his bones if he tried hard enough.

He hated it, he hated when this happened. He always knew that it was coming, of course, he just didn't care enough about himself to stop repeating the same process over and over again.

He wouldn't be back at Raph's for a while.

He groaned as he rolled over on his side, reaching a hand out to fiddle with the belt he'd left on the other side in the middle of the night. The needle was gone, he assumed Raph took it away for him. Raph liked to keep his place relatively safe, and that meant cleaning up needles that could cause a safety hazard to others.

Raphael was a good guy with a mixed moral compass, and Sherlock could appreciate that.

Sherlock stood up and stretched his arms above his head, joints creaking and popping as he took inventory of the other homeless around him with bleary, sandy eyes. He was up early, it appeared. Everybody was fast asleep, morning light only just starting to stream through the blinds.

Yawning, he set about getting ready. He had an obligation to look somewhat presentable for where he was going, after all.

*********

So that's how he found himself later that night in a seedy, smoky bar wearing the only nice button-down he owned. He was surrounded at a table by older men in business attire who had just gotten off of work, playing poker with crystal glasses of brandy at their elbows and cigarettes hanging from their mouths.

Sherlock had always been a master of probability.

He rarely lost a game.

With cards in one hand and a cigarette in the other, Sherlock almost always ended up with a large stack of chips in front of him, being rewarded with the pot in the middle of the table by the end of it. He ate well on those nights, but they had to be few and far between. It wasn't in good taste to do it any more frequently than that, and it was dangerous above all else. Dangerous in a way he'd think twice about when the game involved certain players.

That never stopped him from gaining a reputation, though.

He was stopped by a man who he recognised as being James Armitage – obviously mafia – on his way out of the bar with the back of a hand. Then he gestured back to the table he'd come from. “Hey, kid, the talk around here tells me you're pretty good at that.”

Sherlock shrugged in response. His filter had wised up out of necessity. Anyway, James Armitage had to have been watching him play for the last hour or so, he could gather that information himself.

“Next time you stop by, just find me and we'll have it out, all right?”

Sherlock glanced him over. He was always up for a challenge, and that's exactly what he looked like. “All right.”

*********

The second time it happened was on a rainy day.

Sherlock never had to spend lots of money on food, given that he was rarely ever hungry to begin with. He was thinner than he'd been just six months ago, for sure, but that had more to do with the state of his mood than anything else.

His hands were shaking from malnutrition now as he ran his bow over violin strings. This time it didn't have to do with the state of his mood, he'd just been unable to come across any sort of money for something to eat within that time span. It'd been, what, three solid days without a bite to eat? Even _he_ couldn't survive like that. He was only human, after all.

Sherlock had just dismounted his instrument and he was sitting down with his back pressed up against slippery brick when the man from before passed by.

He took a look over Sherlock, and Sherlock looked back at him from under rain-soaked bangs peeking out of his hood. His expression was nonjudgmental and curiously soft, offering another brief smile moments later as he fished out a wallet from a pocket on the inside of his jacket. Sherlock mused that it was a smart move, keeping something valuable like that in a place like that.

He held another tenner directly out to Sherlock, now that his violin case had been closed to prevent water from ruining the velvet lining. Coins still laid on top of it. Sherlock wondered how far away the nearest soup kitchen was; probably not close enough to even consider making the journey with his current state.

Sherlock didn't make any move to take the note.

The other adjusted his stance, wiping rain from his eyes. “Look, I promise I'm not trying to psych you out, just take it.” Again, Sherlock was a master of probability, he knew that the chances of that happening were very low considering that the man had given the same amount just the other day and had seemed more than happy to do so.

Sherlock still didn't make any move to take it.

The guy tisked, but there was no further comment as he carefully laid the note on Sherlock's curled-up knees. He stood there until a shaky hand came up to grasp the note. Relief flooded through him at the very touch, because he'd just been granted a few more days to live and he knew it very, very well. Sherlock avoided his gaze, sniffing in place of a verbal thanks.

Only then did the guy look pleased enough to continue on his way.

There were very few things that Sherlock didn't understand, and random acts of kindness were one of them.

*********

The third time it happened was on a particularly bad day.

Sherlock was walking down the busy streets of London, tinkering around with a plastic phone in his one hand with a look of utter disdain. Sherlock had woken up late that morning with it wrapped up nicely as a present, and he had half of a mind to go pay his dear brother a visit for _spying_ again.

After overextending the flip phone so that it snapped, he disposed of one half in one trash bin and the other half in a different one a few blocks down. Just to spite him.

Keep in contact, yeah right, more like make it easier for a _certain person of uninterest_ to track him. He knew the game that Mycroft was trying to play, and he wasn't about to play. He didn't need help.

Setting up in his usual spot took half as long as it normally did, propping the case open next to his feet as he stood there with the instrument pressed up against his neck, bow poised over the strings in preparation. He needed an outlet for all of this ridiculous emotion, badly, so when he started to play it shouldn't have been any surprise that the song came out quick and sharp and hard edged with his lips pressed in a thin line.

Sherlock was in his zone. He was only somewhat aware of change being dropped in his case every so often. That he was used to, people stopping in their tracks for as long as it took them to retrieve coins out of their pockets or purses, then going off to let the rest of the song fade with the distance. But when that one particular guy came by and placed another note in his case and proceeded to stick around, Sherlock was acutely aware.

He ended the song just as abruptly as the rest of it had been.

A singular applause greeted him, and his eyes snapped over to the source: that smiling curly-haired stranger who liked to leave him tenners, who else would it have possibly been? The guy proceeded to shove his hands in his pockets, glancing down at the ground where he was nudging a pebble with his shoe. “That's really cool, you know, because you don't see lots of busking violinists,” he tried.

Sherlock shook his head at him meanly, exasperatedly, unable to help the eye roll that followed. It was a way to tell him to just drop the conversation where it was, because he didn't want to hear it. When the other opened his mouth again and lifted his hands in defense, Sherlock supposed that he was going to hear it whether he liked it or not.

“Honest to god, it's a compliment. I play an instrument too, and I have to say, you're good at that,” he tried again.

“I have to be.” Sherlock rested his violin carefully against the brick wall behind him, doing nothing to hide the bite in his tone. He was grimacing, watching the guy rub his chin in contemplation. A piano player by the looks of it. Sherlock just wasn't in the mood to hear the other's voice again. Before he got the chance to get out whatever trite thing that was on his mind, he snapped, “You have a job to be at. That means you can _go_ now.”

He blinked. “Oh, ehm.” Then he brought a wrist up to check his watch, and even through his snippy anger, Sherlock soaked up the look that crossed the other guy's face like a sponge. The guy started back in the direction he was going in, moving quickly like he'd just been jump-started. “Wow, you're right. Thank you!” he called over the sound of a busy sidewalk. Then he waved goodbye when he realised just how far away he'd gotten.

Sherlock ignored him.

What an idiot.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please enjoy this week's edition of me being as vague as possible because researching poker can only go so far.

Nothing had been going right for him in recent days.

It had been two months or so since Sherlock had that first encounter with James Armitage back at the bar. That was an estimated guess because he didn't know for sure how long it'd been; time was relative when all you were required to know was how often you ran out of money.

And Sherlock _had_ run out of money. Completely high and dry, this time with a broken violin peg keeping him there. He estimated that it would cost somewhere around forty, forty-five pounds for a replacement piece, which was a bit steep, and he had no way of getting that money without his violin in one piece. He was sure that he could've come up with a composition without the use of his A string, yet that didn't seem half as much fun as a different alternative he had in mind.

If he was going to live his life on the illegal side of things, he might as well go the whole nine yards.

With that logic in mind, he found himself back at the bar.

Smoke hung heavily in the air as it always did, the lights were dimmed as they always were and chatter from men who'd just gotten off of work filled the room as it always did. It was familiar, and it was exactly what Sherlock was looking for.

Finding Armitage hadn't been a challenge. All he had to do was ask; he supposed that old saying had some truth to it, speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Sherlock scoffed. A game had just ended, and they were taking their seats across from each other, the people around them filtering out then crowding around. It was just him and James seated at the table, locked in a stare down as the cards were dealt. 

They made conversation for a while before they officially started the game, shooting words back and forth trying to come to an agreement when Sherlock had about enough of it and lowered his shoulders, giving Armitage a dark tilt of the head to set the record straight. " _You_ challenged _me_ to play big leagues, mind you, not the other way around." He paused a moment before continuing, "I've found myself in a bit of a tight spot, and I only have pocket change to put on the table.. but that's not fun, is it?"

James folded his hands, leaning forward on his elbows and giving him a smirk from across the table. He shifted something around in his mouth: chewing tobacco. "You want to have fun, kid? Then go ahead and name your price."

Sherlock's lips twitched up in bemusement to mirror the older man's. He'd made it too easy, he was too much of a gambling man to pass up any offer that came his way. Sherlock saw an opportunity, and he was going to take it no matter how much the logical, more street-wise side of his brain was kicking and screaming protesting against it. His filter may have smartened up, but it wasn't foolproof. He clicked his tongue. "Mm. Two grand of yours, all or nothing."

“Why would I do something that stupid?”

"Why not? Are you scared?”

Armitage's lip twitched into a smirk. "Fine, you got it. All or nothing," he repeated in agreement. Definitely a gambling man.

Sherlock reached for his cards after they'd all been placed in front of him at the same time Armitage did.

So with cards in hand, two thousand pounds of Armitage's money laid out in the middle of the table between them, and utterly blank looks on either of their faces, the game started. A crowd was gathered around them, he was sure they were all placing their bets. He idly wondered how many of them were counting him out. How many of them saw him as nothing more than a poor, desperate addict looking to win it big.

Again, not a thing had been going in Sherlock's favour as of late, so when that blank expression refused to give way and a stack of his chips were already lost, Sherlock found himself out of his depth, further away from shore than he'd predicted. It was dangerous. And it'd only taken him a few plays to realise it, even if nothing about this arrangement ran him at risk.

That was, to say, nothing aside from himself.

Sherlock was never one to be motivated by money. Or, at least, that was how he used to be when he had access to the family funds and money didn't have to be a concern.

Because now, all Sherlock could think about was the things that he'd be able to do with that two grand. There was a whole list.

So he mucked it up. Meaning, he'd done some sleight of hand business to ensure he'd get the cards he needed when he needed them. It was simple enough, of course; Sherlock had always been very dexterous, cheating in that manner was something of a second nature to him.

Until it came down to the final draw, the showdown.

He placed down his three of a kind and Armitage placed down his two pair.

He'd won, and it grew quiet; it felt as if the entire room was suspended in awe. He caught Armitage's eye, and he nodded his head. Then Sherlock was giving the other his best shit-eating grin as he stood up to collect his pot, stuffing it all in his pockets and murmuring, "Well, it was a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Armitage–"

"James, I saw 'im hiding that four of clubs!"

Then the room descended into chaos.

The rational side of his brain forced him to stick around for an extra minute as the men tried checking the pile of discarded cards for any indication (he knew that was impossible to determine). It was also the rational side of his brain that forced him to flee as soon as somebody from the crowd came forward with a video they'd taken on their phone. He wasn't stupid, he saw the line of displeasure in his forehead. He knew he'd been caught.

For now he would have to appreciate the little things in life. At least he'd gotten a head start on them.

*********

After sprinting through alleyways, tumbling over some trash bins, and hopping over wire fences to throw off his quite impressive pursuers, Sherlock was making a mad dash across a lamp-lit street. He only allowed himself a single glance backwards. Through the darkness he could make out two figures on the opposite side of a fence.

Shit. They saw him.

He turned around just in time to see– handlebars.

He collided into the front wheel of a bike. At least the person had come to a stop. He tried gripping something, anything for support as he fell, yet all he managed was snagging a sleeve and that barely did any good.

He hit the ground on one hand and a knee. He was stunned in place and blinking rapidly as he stared up at the biker. Everything about him was working a mile a minute, he recognised that face instantly.

"You again? Why are you on a _bike_?" he exclaimed, breathless and incredulous as he scrambled to his feet. The redheaded guy was saying something, something unimportant and ridiculous like _'What are you even doing? Do you know how crazy...'_ Sherlock wasn't paying attention.

Those other guys just hopped the fence.

He cut him off mid-sentence and hopped on the back of the guy's bike, standing on the metal bars. "All right! Whatever, yes, I'll explain later! Now go!"

They took off without further protest. His hands were placed on tensed, flexing shoulders as they zipped down sidewalks. Blood was rushing in his ears; even if the ride was completely silent between them it felt like the loudest five minutes of his life.

Sherlock glanced backwards as they turned a corner. He didn't see them.

Then he relaxed a bit, letting his eyes close. He was safe, they were safe.

*********

"Oh my god."

Sherlock expertly ignored the guy as they dismounted the bike in front of a building. Now that they weren't in a rush, it felt particularly weird to be moving at a normal, unfrenzied pace in an environment that felt more safe than he'd ever been in his adult life. He assumed that this nondescript building he was staring up at was the guy's flat, the one he'd just gotten a couple months ago at the start of his new job– whatever job one would be able to secure with a degree in botany.

The sudden change of pace threw him off; everything seemed too quiet, too calm as they stood under the soft glow of a porch light. It was surreal to even be standing there. The guy was panting with his back against the wall, rubbing a hand over his eyes. "Oh my god, I really just did that."

Sherlock tisked at him in the middle of trying to catch his own breath, as if that conveyed everything he had to say. It sort of did.

He didn't know how it happened, but soon he was inside and standing next to a kitchen chair that he had refused to sit in. He was eating a sandwich that the redheaded guy had prepared – who had introduced himself as Victor – while his wrist got inspected with much more care than he was expecting. A glass of water sat on the table, just within reach.

All of the attention was foreign. He didn't understand it. He didn't understand why things were only just starting to go right for him now, thanks to the bleeding heart of a virtual stranger. What had he ever done to deserve any of this? Really?

He watched Victor as he worked on his wrist, wrapping some sort of flexible material around it. The only sounds to be heard were the evened-out breaths of his companion and the low hum of a television in the background.

When he finished and took a step back, Sherlock took it upon himself to finally sit in the chair that had been offered to him. He reached for the glass of water that was at his elbow, sipping at it all nonchalant and keeping his eyes straight ahead to a tiny square clock that was hanging above Victor's cabinets. Took note of the time. Took note of the little giveaways that this was a new flat with a new owner. Took note of the way that the clock was ever so slightly askew; Victor had thought that he'd been able to eye it up. Clearly, he'd been wrong.

He rubbed at the wrist that Victor had just finished tending to.

"So, ehm, are you going to tell me why you were running?"

Sherlock broke his stare on the clock, bringing it down to regard pale green eyes. It took him all of two seconds to get his head back on the right track. "Are you going to tell me why you were on a bike?" he parroted.

"What, I can't go biking?"

"It's fucking ten o'clock!" A rare smile broke out over his face in surprise.

"Then what the hell were you doing, running for your life _at fucking ten o'clock_ ," Victor shot back, his mouth parted and smiling as well, turning his body to the side in just as much surprise as the other.

Sherlock rubbed once more at the bandaging with the knuckles of his other hand that was now holding a half eaten sandwich. He paused, contemplating how entirely unsatisfied his stomach felt for a moment, before just shoving the rest of it in his mouth. A long beat of silence later, in the midst of chewing, he attempted to speak through it: "I hustled an important guy in an important poker game."

"What?"

Hustling wasn't necessarily the best way to put it; he'd straight up cheated at it then stole the guy's money, but Victor didn't seem like the type who needed second-by-second details. Sherlock kept him in suspense, holding up a finger to pause Victor until he was finished chewing. He swallowed. "Poker. Hustling. Mafia. Not a good combination," he said impatiently as if he were repeating something he'd screamed at Victor rather than spoken through a sandwich.

Victor apparently took that information in stride. His elbows rested back on the countertop while Sherlock's feet tapped against yellow-checkered linoleum tile, the both of them bathed in a sterilized, sickly circle of light. Victor tilted his head, his voice going soft. "If you need a place to stay, you know, you can always hide out here for a bit."

Sherlock, meanwhile, had been examining the tattered, dirty shoes on his feet and how they looked against the backdrop of Victor's prim, bleach-cleaned kitchen.

He didn't belong there.

So Sherlock pursed his lips as he stood and wiped imaginary crumbs off of his trousers. "Mmm, no thanks." He might as well have started heading for the door with the way things appeared to be heading; the warm, open look on Victor's face wasn't something that he found himself capable of staring at for too long.

He turned on his heel and began trekking back through Victor's sitting room in order to get to the front door. The whole place was littered under large potted plants and random pieces of paper with random, hastily done scribbles on them; it felt more suffocating than anything.

Flinging the door open, Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to find that Victor had followed him out into the hallway. He groaned low in his throat.

By the time they were both outside, shrouded in darkness with only a nearby streetlight turned on, Victor was rushing to catch up with him. He even followed him out onto the middle of the empty road, but Sherlock just kept going.

"Hey, hey, I just want to help! I'm offering you a place to sleep tonight so you don't get yourself killed, do you understand that? That's the only reason, and I'm glad I made that change in my routine.. you should be, too! It's not like I go biking around looking for you all hours of the night in case you might need–"

"Oh my god, Victor!" Sherlock whipped around to face him, arms held out wide. "Leave, me, aloooooone," he said, drawn-out and frustrated across the space of gravel between them. He was so done with Victor, so done with all of this niceness. He was too prideful to accept any form of help that he hadn't sought out himself, was what it all came down to. There was a certain shame in it that he'd gotten practice in avoiding for _years_ thanks to Mycroft. Sherlock was trying really hard to not draw comparisons between the two. "I don't know what motivations you've got for this, but I do know I don't need your pity, and I don't need your money either." He felt the heavy weight of the money in his pocket. It was reassuring. What he was saying was true.

Victor paused for a second, then he raised his hands in defeat as he backed off. A car's headlights had just appeared over the horizon, so he shook his head, just shrugging it off. "Fine, next time you run in front of my bike, I'm not helping."

Sherlock's reaction was practically a study in unconcern. He clicked his tongue. "Noted."


	3. Chapter 3

As Sherlock climbed up the steps to Raphael's flat, taking in the chipped corners, broken handrails, and peeling wallpaper, he practically felt the money weighing him down, burning a hole in his pocket. He knew that it'd done more than just that; it'd also burned quite a few bridges for him along the way, and he didn't think this was something that would ever be extinguished.

It seemed as if all money knew how to do was make people burn.

He was greeted by Raphael as he came in the door, only catching a glimpse of the guy sitting at his kitchen table sorting through some kind of paperwork. Sherlock's mind was intent on one thing and one thing only when he followed the voice back in there, the both of them standing around and chatting for a few minutes. Raphael had stopped whatever he was doing to stand up. "Hey."

"Hello."

"Long time no see, my friend. You got held up somewhere?"

"No. Just stayed at a friend's house."

"Good to hear."

With Raph, he knew the small talk was more of a formality than anything for when a plastic bag would be handed off to him, as it inevitably was. He'd been getting more and more haphazard with his purchases, for which he decided that he couldn't be blamed considering how shit things had been going for him, but now, with a newfound sense of clarity to his actions, Sherlock felt as if he had to make some sort of penance for it.

After all, Raph had always provided for him whenever he didn't have quite enough money, and Sherlock had always promised him, sooner or later. He shifted from foot to foot, sparing a glance behind him in the general direction of the other homeless, where they were just out of sight, but Sherlock could see the rows of mattresses and sunken cheeks all the same. "Look, I ran into some money recently, so I want you to take this-" he counted out seven-hundred pounds "-and I want you to know that this me paying you back."

It'd actually been the very first item on that mental checklist Sherlock had made back at the bar. It'd been one of the main reasons why he'd disregarded the warning signs flashing right before his eyes as he'd fled from the place.

He still had well over one-thousand for himself either way; he didn't see it as too large of a loss.

Raph thanked him, and Sherlock could feel the sincerity of his words in the way he held their handshake. "And hey, man, I'll even let you put your stuff my bedroom again, just take it with you when you leave in the morning."

"It's appreciated." They nodded at each other.

Soon enough, Sherlock hid away the rest of that hard earned money inside his violin case, which had already taken up a residence against Raphael's closet door.

All he could think about as he laid out on another mattress, sleeves rolled up as he flexed to find a vein, was the myriad other things he'd soon be checking off of his mental list. He needed that violin piece, obviously, and perhaps it was even time to treat himself to a set of high quality strings. He needed a good breakfast, and a good lunch, and an even better supper. He needed new shoes, new clothes, new equipment for his forensics experiments, new everything. He needed to try a speedball at some point. And he was actually going to get those things.

There was something freeing about spending money that wasn't technically yours. He didn't feel bad about wanting to indulge himself, not as if he ever really had.

He fell asleep that night warmed by the presence of a room full of other bodies in similarly altered mental states, the blood singing in his veins.

*********

A few hours later an angry, thickly accented voice forced him into consciousness, barking demands at people. It was relentless, even switching between two different languages mid-sentence. All of the commotion was making his head throb as if nails were being screwed into his temples.

It was Raphael yelling at them. He'd always known that the guy had a mixed moral compass that always ended up pointing towards logic, sometimes overly so, and what was going on was an absolute testament to that. He was walking up and down the rows of mattresses, waving people along and tapping them on their shoulders as he went. "Until I know who went in my room, y'all can get the fuck out. I don't care where you go, you just can't stay here... Yeah I mean it, pack your shit up and get out of my house."

Sherlock cracked a sticky eye open to find the homeless around him gathering their possessions.

That couldn't mean anything good.

Sherlock's body was standing upright before he had a chance to really register it, stumbling towards him with a hand pressed hard against the side of his head. He didn't even want to think about how he must've looked, hunched over before his dealer, clothes practically hanging off of him with his stare bleary and unfocused. "Raph-"

"Shezza, man, one of the guys trashed my room last night. Looks like all they took was the money in your violin case, though." It took him a moment to realise that the man was addressing him. All he did was blink at him, trying to unstick his eyelids. "Maybe you can track them down, I know you're good at that kind of stuff."

Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgment, rubbing at the itching track marks in the crook of his arm as he watched Raph go off to talk to a few other homeless, rushing them out with barely enough time to sling their bags over their shoulders. He was kicking them all out, every last one of them. Sherlock couldn't fault him for it, though, not entirely; his good will had been exploited. While he normally only let his usual, trusted buyers spend the night – the ones he knew would end up too drugged out on morphine to even move – it was really only a matter of time before either Raph forgot to lock the door behind him, or one of those customers grew a little too curious for their own good. Nobody was perfect.

Sherlock approached Raph again after he managed to collect himself, only moments later finding his voice. "I suppose you'll need me to leave as well."

"Yeah, I do. I don't know what to tell you, man, it just wouldn't be fair." Sherlock had to admit that he had a point there. So he took his violin case with him – that had been left forgotten on the floor after the money had been stolen out of it – and heaved a sigh. He was busy going over the events of the night before, any possible people who could've been around to eavesdrop on their conversation, but he was horrified to find that his memories didn't have any discernible timeline to them. If his thoughts were a painting, their colours had run together.

He stared aghast at some random point in the distance, trying to jog his brain into cooperating. It wasn't.

Because during the course of a single night, one of his biggest safe houses had gone up in flames, and there wasn't much of anything to be done about it. He felt as if he were walking over ashes as he made his way down the steps.

*********

Sherlock preoccupied himself with trying to piece together the events of the night before, sitting in a corner of the public library and staring intently down at a book he wasn't reading as he did so. He was sat as if he were about to flee at any moment, though he knew that wasn't about to happen anytime soon. He didn't have anywhere to go.

Unless…

*********

It was too dark for him to clearly see the task before him. The floor's overhead light was out, shrouding him in darkness with only scarce rays of artificial yellow streaming in from the window at the opposite end of the hall. He'd picked plenty of locks to know the standard motions for it, though, of course he'd be able to get in without a hitch, it would just take a bit longer and would run him at an even greater risk of getting caught by the other people on his floor if they just so happened to need to leave their flat at one in the morning.

He wasn't counting on it, honestly.

He held the door up to prevent it from creaking, slipping inside and not bothering to lock it behind him. He wasn't about to block one of his safest escape routes like that.

It had only been two days since the last time he'd stepped through that door. He hadn't expected it to look so vastly different, to the point where he was doubting if he'd broken into the correct flat, but as he went further in and his eyes began adjusting to the low light, he felt confident in leaving those doubts behind.

Walking through the living room was like making his way through a jungle, honestly, brushing aside leaves upon leaves as he went. He had only caught glimpses of the living room in the short amount of time he'd spent bumming around in the kitchen getting his arm wrapped up, then storming through it on his way out, but he definitely wouldn't have expected anything else.

Victor could be described in so many ways, not all of them in a positive light. Sherlock did admire his enthusiasm, if anything, because that was an area he'd been extremely lacking in himself. It wasn't that he disliked the other, per se, there were just so many other factors going into it: the assumption that he automatically needed a handout just because he didn't live in a flat, the way his brother had done basically the same thing in trying to help him, etcetera etcetera. It all hit a little too close to home for his liking.

He was quiet on his feet and even quieter settling down on the sofa, nestling into a decorative pillow, eyes falling weary with exhaustion as he focused on the silhouettes of leaves through the darkness. He fell asleep with his backpack clutched to his chest and his violin case safely hidden in the bushes just outside the building.

Such was the life of a transient.

*********

The next morning, well before sunrise, a tall, lanky figure could be seen rummaging through bushes that lined the front of Victor's building, light from a lamp post just barely reaching him as he walked away moments later with a violin case in hand. It'd been a flawless break-and-enter, if he did say so himself.

He knew Victor's work schedule rather well by now after observing from his busking spot so many times, and he was set to come back that very same night to crash on his sofa again. He'd even be able to sleep for a bit longer, for it was a Saturday. Didn't everybody sleep in on Saturdays?

In the meantime, though, he'd found a Very Good way to keep himself preoccupied.

Of course he'd have to take the long way for it, for that was just his life, it seemed. He lived on the alternate route, the darkened path lined with dead, withered trees, and filled with terrible beasts lurking the shadows. Now, it was non-metaphorically closer to early morning walks through back alleys and feeling like you had a gun trained on you the entire time, but, it is what it is.

Bart's Hospital was where Sherlock had spent most of the day after that, inside one of their labs that normally would only be reserved for practicing students, surrounded by clear glass tubes and white tile and shiny metal as he sat there, hunched over and intent on the work in front of him. Before he'd taken that alternate route, he'd been a university student, a chemistry major with too much on his mind and not enough outlets for them. He had more than enough outlets at the moment, especially with recent developments, that was all that mattered to him.

He had his violin case set atop the table in front of him while he dusted for fingerprints on the latch. There had to be _something_ there; he didn't expect too much out of the commonwealth to begin with, even less so out of a drug addict in need of a fix.

And yet he still wondered why people looked down their noses at him.

It wasn't too terribly hard for him to find a solid, unsmudged fingerprint on the case. Bart's had more than enough resources for those sorts of things. The only hard part would be breaking into the Met's database to find a match, but with Sherlock Holmes, nothing was impossible. That just wasn't a word in his dictionary.

*********

There was a body struggling beneath him, a striped blue shirt riding up as Sherlock wrenched his arm back. A hand was knotted in the back of the guy's greasy hair, shoving his face down in the ground, each panicked breath sending a little dust cloud off to the side.

Enough said, Sherlock had found his guy.

Like many homeless, he hadn't been too hard to track, either. They all had their regular haunts, Sherlock included.

He pursed his lips up at the foggy afternoon sky. "... Apparently you're not competent enough to understand what I'm asking. Let me rephrase. I will ask you one more time, and _only_ one more time." His voice was passive, bored, even. This hadn't been his preferred method of interrogation, but the guy had brought it upon himself, in all honesty, he'd fled at the very mention of Raphael's flat. Not that he'd gotten very far. They were currently a bit tied up between two buildings, near a fence that he hadn't even been able to clear. Sherlock leaned in close to the other's ear as he grunted in discomfort, calmly murmuring each word individually, "What did you do with my money?"

The guy's breathing escalated for a moment before he just let out a long huff. His whole body seemed to deflate with that moment he'd finally conceded, though it took him a bit to actually get the words out. "I spent it, mate, okay? I fucking spent it, just let me up."

Asking for repayment from a drug addict? Yeah, right. Sherlock grimaced, wrenching on the guy's arm one last time before pushing off of him.

Fabulous. Simply fabulous.

Well, he figured, it had been worth a shot.

*********

He was still in a poor mood about the whole thing by the time he got back to Victor's flat. The knowledge that he'd been royally screwed over in nearly every direction followed him, lingered around on his shoulders even as he clicked the door shut behind him. Finding the guy hadn't done much of anything to help him, all it did was give him a face and a name to store away for future reference.

Sherlock was not one who forgave, nor forgot.

But the sight of Victor's sofa with those silly little decorative pillows, knowing that things were going to be okay for the night, while the world was silent just outside the window and the stars tried to shine through the city sky? It made him want to forget. He didn't want to even think of the implications of that.

He crashed on a sofa that was not his own, nestled into his jacket and curled up in a ball on his side. It was as comfortable as he would ever be, and he was content with that. It was enough.

Hours later, his face was smooshed into a large embroidered carrot on one of Victor's silly pillows, snoring slightly.

Sherlock had never been a deep sleeper, mind you, he'd always been the type to be hyper-aware of his surroundings, even in rest. That was just the way his body functioned, all hours of the day, 24/7, especially ever since he'd kicked himself out of his family's good graces and he'd relegated himself to living out on the streets. Yet, when he only barely registered the sound of socked feet whispering along the floor, back and forth and back and forth in indecision, he was far too deep into unconsciousness to stir. He'd let himself go that night, he'd been confident that Victor would be sleeping in at least an hour and a half later than usual.

That was a miscalculation.

Something hard and bristly was whacked in his face.

"Get out! Get out get out get out!"

Sherlock's arms came up to protect himself.

That panicked mantra followed him as he scrambled up off the sofa, and he got swatted in his back a few times as he fled to the front door, tripping over potted plants along the way.

He felt like a mouse being shooed out the kitchen; he couldn't imagine it looking too different either.

He was shoved outside as soon as the door was opened. There was a moment of silence in which he assumed that Victor's brain was working overtime to make sense of it all, to recognise who exactly it was he'd found asleep on his couch.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing in my house!?" Victor scream-whispered at him after Sherlock had been effectively chased out of his flat, standing there in the hallway with a death grip on a broom. They were both panting, having a standoff there in the low, early morning light. The other's hair was sticking up in every direction, his expression disgruntled and still half asleep, and despite himself, Sherlock found that dumb bedheaded look all sorts of adorable. It suited him well.

Sherlock blinked up at him like the answer was the most obvious thing in the world. "I needed a place to sleep."

"You could've just fucking asked!"

He paused to contemplate that. He supposed that he could have, if he'd bothered to just suck up his pride for a day or two and admit to Victor that he'd said the wrong things last time, but that wasn't the type of person he was, was it? Sherlock raised an eyebrow to the singular piece of clothing the other was sporting: plaid pyjama bottoms that were so long they pooled on the ground at his bare feet. He switched his gaze up rather innocently.

"Oh well if it was that easy... can I sleep here?"

"GET OUT!"

Sherlock couldn't believe he got away from there without laughing. _That_ was a new feeling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to know what you guys think of this so far! Consider leaving a comment or something, every single one of them makes my day :)
> 
> Also shout out to Juliette/the-doors-are-closed/Ramonaflowersz, who betas this fic for me! You're great~


	4. Chapter 4

It had taken him a few minutes of walking down the streets, keeping his eyes down and his pace quick, to realise that his shoulders were weirdly empty.

Sherlock let out a sigh; he'd forgotten his backpack on Victor's couch in his hurry. He had half a mind to just leave it there, never to dare go back for it, but he knew that wasn't reasonable. Almost all of his most needed possessions were in there: his other pairs of clothes, his socks, his toothpaste amongst much other things. It was his life in a backpack, basically, one that he couldn't afford to replace.

He had to go back.

So he stood there at Victor's front door again, boring a hole through the wood with his stare, trying to soothe his grimace into something a bit more approachable as he waited for the other to answer. He didn't have any premeditated conversations in his head trying to figure out how this was all going to go down. He'd stopped doing that long ago, he figured that it was going to happen however it happened and he was too unselfconscious to care. Victor would be Victor and Sherlock would be Sherlock. As they were supposed to.

When the door made way for a curious face, Sherlock pulled a smile. It felt insincere.

Then it was closed in his face.

"Victor!" His continuing protests were met with nothing. Silence. That was the last thing he was expecting, honestly, so he just stood there dumbfounded, trying to figure out how to proceed from there.

Luckily he didn't have to ponder it for too long. Victor reappeared moments later with the backpack in hand, stepping outside so that Sherlock had to take a few steps himself as he closed the door behind him. The hallway was stilled with the silence between them, making him aware of how the door was shut and Victor's body was positioned against it, as if he were guarding it from another intrusion. There was the lock and click of a door a few meters off, somebody emerging from their flat. They waited for the person to pass. As soon as their footsteps disappeared down the stairs, Victor held the backpack up for emphasis. "So this is yours." It was said as a statement, one that was meant to be terribly obvious.

Sherlock found that he couldn't look him in the eye. He was embarrassed, of all things, from that one sentence alone. "… Listen-"

"Listen, Sherlock, I just want to know one thing." Interesting. Sherlock tilted his head to urge the other to continue. "Why did you only _just_ decide to break into my flat? Like a few days after I offered it to you."

I got kicked out of my previous place and you were the first person who came to mind, but, oh, I didn't get kicked out for anything that _I_ did, everybody got kicked out for the actions of one homeless, drug-addicted, fantastical lowlife who wants to 'fight the system'. I was too egotistical to apologise and therefore found it a good idea to break into your flat afterward.

That sounded terrible.

"It doesn't matter."

"I beg to differ, it matters a lot. You scared the shit out of me."

Sherlock wasn't too keen on talking about it. He was ready to move on. There weren't many other ways for their conversation to progress at that point, and he needed to convince the other to hand over his backpack somehow, so Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, straightened his shoulders, then looked Victor dead in the eye to mentally prepare himself. He smothered his grin into something a bit more solemn, then said, at length, "I'm sorry, then."

A moment of contemplation, Victor casting a look of suspicion upon him. He held it for a few seconds, seemingly in an attempt to scrutinise him, yet he was only greeted by the widening of Sherlock's eyes in a gesture of innocence. Then a sigh. "All right." Though reluctant, Victor handed the backpack off to Sherlock who immediately moved to put it on. He stood there, eager to flee now that he'd gotten what he came there for. "If you don't want to tell me anything, that's fine, I'm not gonna twist your arm. Just, stay in touch if you ever need anything, preferably by _not_ breaking into my flat. Please."

Memories of a broom held up menacingly in the moonlight, pyjamas hanging off Victor's hips, and a whole lot of hushed yelling came flooding back to him as the two stood there in front of Victor's flat for the second time in one day. It made him huff out his nose in amusement. At least he'd ditched the oversized pyjama bottoms for a nice pair of jeans. In all honesty, he couldn't tell if Victor's clothes were nice, or if _everything_ just looked nice on him.

Victor's phrasing had turned him off completely, though, and he found himself backing up towards the door on the opposite side of the hallway. 'If you ever need anything' was the part that he was so hung up on. That meant help.

He didn't need help.

The thing that made Raphael different was that he'd never offered 'help', he'd simply given him a safe place to keep his violin and had always had an open invitation as long as a mattress was available. On the other hand, Victor had offered to help him. Mycroft had offered to help him. He didn't want it. And he didn't want to stay in contact with either of them if all he was seen as was a charity case.

Sherlock gave the other a mock salute just before he disappeared down the staircase. "Oh, of course. Though the best way to stay in touch would probably be to start biking at odd hours of the night again.”

He took Victor's good mood along with his backpack, it seemed, even if they both left smiling.

*********

A few hours later, Sherlock realised that Victor had left him a little gift in the front of his backpack. He unzipped the pouch to find a neatly folded tenner amidst a bunch of his own belongings, pulling out the pink note with a carefully blank expression. Another paper was soon found, a written note that read:

Sherlock:  
Here's to first meetings. Let's not make these our last.  
\- VT

Sherlock was tempted to throw it away, to make it their absolute last meeting. At least, that was what he told himself as he slipped the white paper back into the safety of his backpack; he just had a feeling that he'd be running into Victor again at some point. He seemed like a rather hard person to avoid.


	5. Chapter 5

Because this was reality and not some frivolous work of fiction, Sherlock did not actually run in front of Victor's bike for a second time, however tempted he might have been to run in front of any bike he came across.

But because real life was often stranger than fiction, Sherlock had received a call from an unknown number.

Something from within his backpack had chimed, and upon investigation, it had been another black flip phone, the usual MO. Of course he'd suspected that it was Mycroft at first, but upon answering in the usual tone he always reserved for his older brother, a completely different voice greeted him. It was cold, unwavering, confident. “Hello, Sherlock Holmes. We have to talk.”

Recognition froze him in place.

Armitage.

He'd been idling, now his actions were catching up to him.

The phone slowly slipped down from his ear; muffled static of silence over the line could still be heard. It was deafening, and his stomach was rising in its own nervousness when the voice hummed and went on. “You already know who I am and why I'm calling, but, that's not quite enough incentive for you, I've noticed... I have something of yours, found him on the streets on his way to work. I'm sure you'll be very interested in getting him back.”

That couldn't have been anybody but Victor, how could they have known? How could Armitage have been spying on him the entire time without so much as a trace?

The seconds ticked on between them, and a headache insinuated itself behind his forehead just then. He was stupid. He hadn't observed. He'd let a common criminal beat him at a game that he had started. “... Nothing to say? That's the opposite of what I've heard about you, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock brought his eyebrows together, found himself in a moment of clarity. “Perhaps your sources aren't as reliable as you thought.”

A pointed inhale came from the other end of the line. In place of a response, he disclosed his location. Sherlock recognised it as a warehouse along the river Thames after a few moments of mentally cataloguing it. “You have twenty minutes to get here with my money. Don't disappoint your friend.”

He hung up.

*********

Just hours before:

Victor was on his way to work, joining the usual morning rush along the sidewalks.

He had been looking out for a specific street performer with a violin nearly every single day since he'd chased him out of the flat with a broom, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man who so easily eluded him, perhaps to sit down and have a conversation like adults. They had some things to talk through that didn't just end at the encounter they'd had in front of Victor's door. Though Sherlock was not the most forthcoming of people, he'd noticed.

Victor had grown accustomed to city life in his short time living in the heart of London. He'd only just moved into a tiny flat at the start of his new job, and while he'd been anticipating his life to change in some major respects, he had not been anticipating the wave of shit that had descended upon him simply for being nice to a stranger who had needed the help. Waking up to find said stranger sleeping on his sofa hadn't been the best housewarming gift he'd ever gotten.

He shook his head clear as he adjusted his satchel strap.

On any other day he'd have not paid much attention to the presence of somebody walking just behind him, but he'd been feeling eyes on him all week and had grown a bit paranoid as a result. The figure fell like a shadow in his peripheral vision, and he'd been tempted to turn around since they'd passed a little corner shop a street or so back.

The steps echoing his own sounded resolute. Like Victor should've known what it was all about.

Perhaps he did. He hadn't been hired by such a prodigious company for his looks alone, surprisingly enough.

Victor turned and caught the eye of a man wearing a suit. It only lasted a moment. Then he passively diverted his gaze to continue staring straight ahead as they both walked, nearly perfectly in sync. Something about all of it was unsettling, and Victor has never been one to doubt his instincts.

It had something to do with Sherlock. It _always_ had something to do with Sherlock.

It hadn't been just by happenstance that the same week he found Sherlock hiding out in his house was the same week Victor found himself being followed by a man in a suit on his way to work. It couldn't have been.

At least they were the same height; whoever sent him had obviously been anticipating a good fight.

“He's gotten into more trouble, has he.” He kept his tone conversational, flat. They were walking side by side now. The energy was growing between them like something was about to snap. “Where do you wanna do this, mate?” he asked just loud enough to be heard over the foot traffic surrounding them. His companion was silent as he gestured with an arm to the right. Victor was herded off into an alleyway, the two of them easily slipping past the crowd's notice.

They continued walking until they were out of earshot. Only then did he turn around to fully face the other, taking inventory of the items around him along the way.

“And here, we, go.” The man smirked, stopping them.

Victor let the satchel slip from his shoulder. He tilted his head darkly at the large, looming figure in front of him, cracking his knuckles.

He sighed. “All right, bring it.”

_Should'a never have given him that tenner._

*********

Sherlock was tearing his hair out listening to Mycroft's voicemail answer him over and over again as he rushed to the Thames. What was the point of a peace offering made specifically to contact his brother if he ever needed help, if it couldn't be put to use when he needed it? Something told him that Mycroft was doing it on purpose, Sherlock knew him like the back of his hand.

Though he wondered how Armitage had even gotten the number to his phone. It scared him.

When he came upon the warehouse that Armitage had specified, the feel of cold, damp concrete seeping through his tattered shoes with each step, a hand went to the gun resting in his back pocket. It belonged to Raphael. Technically.

All technicalities aside, he was fortunate enough to have been able to pick it up along his way.

Sherlock withdrew the gun from his pocket as he rounded a corner of the building, checking behind the shipment boxes he found stacked along the wall. He was scoping the outside perimeter first; going straight through the front doors into a volatile situation like this was not particularly smart. He had already been stupid once in his life, and he wasn't planning on making it a pattern.

He glanced through a murky, yellowed window. He couldn't catch anything distinct, but there were figures standing in the room, one lower than the rest. No guns pointed at the entrance in wait, that was all he needed to see.

Sherlock felt as if he were being followed as he made his way back around to the front. There were empty whiskey bottles discarded on the concrete, alongside little patches of green that had dared to sprout between the cracks.

He never thought he'd catch himself envying the bravery of a plant. That sounded like something Victor would do.

The door creaked, and he closed his eyes in agitation the rest of the way in. He tucked the gun away into his back pocket when he realised that it probably wasn't going to be needed. If Armitage wanted him dead, he would have ensured it by now. The first thing to greet him was a sniffle in the next room over. He carefully made his way deeper into the building, into the other room where he knew Victor was, passing tall stacks of wooden crates painted with serial numbers along the way.

As his eyes adjusted to the low lighting inside the warehouse, only a third of the fluorescent overhead lights turned on, he made out the shapes of all the people in the room. He and Victor were obviously outnumbered.

James Armitage stood with such confidence that he demanded the attention of everybody in the room.

Sherlock ignored him to assess Victor.

The other was sitting on the ground cross-legged with his hands tied behind his back. His shoulders were hunched, and while that should have made him look smaller, all it did was make him look brooding. The light hit his face just right so Sherlock could see dried tear tracks down his face. A looming figure stood just behind him like he was some sort of pet to be kept in place.

Sherlock was _proud_ of Victor; the evidence of a fight was obvious in two black eyes between the pair of them, the suited man behind Victor slightly cringing with a broken nose, Victor with a minor cut and a bruise near his temple. So that's how he'd been knocked out.

Upon lifting his head to meet Sherlock, he sniffed again, this time more annoyed than anything. He still had a modicum of his dignity left, at least, holding his stare like his entire world depended on it.

“Mr. Holmes. I knew you'd come to visit your good friend Victor.”

Sherlock surveyed the scene, turning his body all around as he went; the four men in suits were imposing, not yet threatening. His eyes landed back on Victor for a second before he turned sharp and cold. Murderous in his resolution when he looked back up. “He has nothing to do with this, you can let him go.”

“Oh well that would be too easy, wouldn't it.”

“He's hardly a 'good friend' of mine. I've only known him for a few days, I'd say you kidnapped the wrong person.”

“Have I?” Challenging. Sherlock pursed his lips shut, and Victor looked as if he'd been struck with what Sherlock had said. He didn't acknowledge him, still busy trying to figure out how Armitage had been watching his every move without Sherlock noticing; he’d been spinning it around in his head since he’d gotten the phone call.

Armitage had seen Sherlock sleep in Victor's house for a few days, the actual circumstances surrounding it notwithstanding, and that was why Victor, of all people, had been chosen for this debacle. Sherlock didn’t have a particularly large circle of acquaintances for Armitage to pull from. “Did you bring my money or what?”

“No. I don't have your money.”

“Then where is it?”

“It was stolen from me. If you’d like to ask the person who actually spent it…” Armitage was walking towards him like Sherlock's words were a pedometer. When they finally came face to face, he did not look pleased. “I can give you their name, probable location, a list of their loved ones...”

He was slapped. Pain blossomed from his cheek. His head slowly turned back to face forward, glaring at the space in front of him, anywhere but his persecutor’s eyes.

He supposed he deserved that one.

Armitage's sharp intent was almost willing him to look him in the eye, his voice slow and calm and venomous. “You listen to me, kid. I took your deal 'cause I felt bad for you. I knew you didn't have any money on you that night, because as much natural talent as you have, I know desperation when I see it.” His downturned lip punctuated his thoughts on the subject. He obviously wasn’t buying Sherlock's excuse. Either way, he supposed it wasn’t Armitage's problem where the money had went.

“I thought if you could prove yourself, you damn well deserved the two grand, but now I see all you are is a coward. Cowards don't deserve anything, Mr. Holmes.”

The weight of what he was saying fell heavy on Sherlock's shoulders. Armitage wanted results, and with a gun near Victor's head, he was going to get them, one way or the other. Sherlock grit his teeth. His cheek stung red. He felt like a wounded animal giving in to the will of another predator, all sharp teeth bared at his throat, just inches from his jugular. He'd be able to count the exact seconds to his death; he knew how long it would take, and he did not like those numbers. “Give me two weeks to get your money.”

“One week.”

“I'm not going to be able to do that.”

“Find a way.”

Something in Victor snapped just then. The tear stains on his cheeks cracked when his face moved expressively, driven by fervor. “If nobody is gonna help me out here, then let me try to strike a deal, because this is going _nowhere_ : if you let me go and if you end all of this now, I will give you a fourth of whatever the hell he owes you. Right now. No questions asked. Okay?” He flickered between Sherlock and Armitage, unsure of who to focus his anger on.

Sherlock didn't know what to say.

After some words exchanged between him and Armitage, Victor's hands were uncuffed from behind his back and he was helped to his feet. After wiping the dust from his trousers, Victor was digging into a jacket pocket to retrieve his wallet. Five-hundred pounds passed from hand to hand, and Sherlock felt a brief twinge that Victor was willing to lose so much money.

In Sherlock's world, Normal People only carried around physically what they were willing to part with.

Conversation was happening around him, banging on the glass trying to get in. Why had Victor sacrificed so much for this?

Where he normally would have been paying acute attention to everything around him, he found himself zoning out, focused in on Victor. He was what mattered at that particular moment. Victor had a blank look on his face, his shoulders raised. His cheeks still had the memory of tears lining them.

Armitage cut through his reverie. “Don't forget, kid. One week. You know where to find me.” He left with a cigar in his mouth and the click of a lighter following him out.

Sherlock and Victor were left with words bubbling up under the surface, the other seeming ready to burst the second the three other men exited the building. It all felt like a stage after a play being dismantled.

The door creaked shut in the other room. They stared at each other some more.

When Victor didn't make a move to speak, simply exhaling in relief and bringing his hands up to smooth over his hair, Sherlock's eyes went sincere, and he attempted, "Thank you, Victor, for–”

“No.” He cut Sherlock off, shaking his head. “No, no, no, I don't want to hear it. You suddenly like me because, what? I proved myself to you as an asset? Get out, this ends now.” It hadn't been said as strongly as the words would suggest; his voice was shakier than his hands fumbling to tuck the wallet back into his jacket.

Victor gathered his wits together and headed for the door shortly after. He swallowed, breaking the silence, his voice coming out clear: “I am not going to be kidnapped again over some lowlife who doesn't care about me, doesn't even care for themselves. If you get into any more trouble, please, try to find somebody else to take the fall for it.”

Sherlock only nodded.

*********

He hated sleeping in abandoned houses. They were lonely with only a couple pieces of furniture scattered about that the previous owners hadn't bothered to take with them. The floorboards tended to creak, and the empty space between empty rooms always had this eerie wind blowing through them that Sherlock grumpily hid his head under his backpack to avoid.

He felt like he belonged amidst the furniture that had been forgotten, unwanted by their owner. That was the worst part.

Word on the street was that Raphael was moving.

Sherlock knew there was more going into it than just the one night his bedroom had been trashed, as common talk went. That younger sibling of his had gotten accepted into some fancy boarding school for her violin playing, and Raph wanted to stay close to her. Sherlock had gathered all of that when he'd stopped by to give him his gun back.

Sherlock had congratulated her. Raphael wished him luck in whatever the hell he'd gotten himself into.

His smile was tight.

Now, Sherlock was lying on a pile of the only clothes he had to his name, contemplating his situation, still wearing his shoes in case the neighbors had caught him sneaking in and he had to make a break for it. He suddenly wished that he and Victor weren't on such shaky terms. He'd much rather be chased out the door with a broom than a baseball bat, or worse, the Met.

There were many things he wished for. Above all he wished that things would go right for him just this once. He had a week to get fifteen-hundred pounds into Armitage's hands, and he couldn't afford to waste any time in doing so. He had to set up a game plan.

He had a few options: gambling would get him around 200 a day, minus the bus fare out to a bar where nobody knew his name nor his reputation; busking would get him no less than 50 on a good day; and selling marijuana had the potential to bring him a 20% profit as long as he found people who wanted to buy it. That part shouldn't be too hard, he figured, all he had to do was visit a nightclub a few times.

All in all he was predicting to _just_ scrape by with 1,500 pounds.

He wished for the week to be over already. He wished that he'd never told his parents to stop supporting a drug habit, because that's all he was, and that's all they were really going to get out of him. At least, that's what he'd said.

Maybe he also wished for Victor to forgive him.

*********

King's Road was where the upper class went to shop. The people who were able to spend fifty-five pounds on a steak were exactly the ones Sherlock wanted to be around, though most of those people would sooner die than throw even a coin to a homeless busking musician.

Sherlock was taking a gamble with it. If he didn't garner even a look of interest within an hour, he'd be packing up his stuff and heading over to Oxford Street where all the poorly tourists liked to gather.

Apparently, though, the violin was just pretentious enough to get some positive attention.

He'd also cleaned up well. He was wearing a purple button-down and the only nice pair of slacks he owned, which was what he usually wore when he went out gambling. He'd expertly hid the track marks with his sleeves this time, and he'd also slapped himself a few times to bring some colour onto his face. He'd even replaced the broken tuning peg on his violin, as unhappy as he was to lose the money.

The songs lined up today were famous classical pieces, starting with some of the more recognisable ones first.

Four Seasons – Spring.

It was all soft, trembling notes that contrasted with big swells of the same chord over and over again. As the hours slowly wheedled away, he moved on to other songs by other famous composers such as Bach and Beethoven, bowing every time somebody stopped to drop some money into the opened velvet lining of his violin case.

He walked away with less than forty pounds, meaning, he was worth less than a steak. His fingers were numb.

*********

Sherlock had went five days before he gave in. He knew what defeat looked like before it even had the chance to rear its ugly head. Busking was only ever good to sustain a day-to-day living, and selling drugs was out of the question because by the time he'd gotten enough money for a substantial amount of pot, he'd lost half his week and there was literally no way he'd be able to sell it quick enough to make the profit he'd envisioned.

Gambling hadn't worked out too well for him either. He was so stressed that he'd lost his edge, and he'd only managed to get 300 pounds in four days... that was what he was supposed to have gotten in _one_ day.

Enough said, things hadn't quite gone according to plan. As if they ever do.

He pulled out the black flip phone and sent a message to his only shot at cleaning up the mess he'd made. He was physically biting his tongue to prevent an avalanche of unnecessary drivel from descending upon his brother.

_To: Mycroft  
We need to talk._


	6. Chapter 6

Drum. Drum. Drum.

Mycroft was drumming his fingers on his desk, awaiting an answer.

Sherlock had the heels of his tattered shoes propped up on expensive leather, doing everything he could to be a nuisance.

Sitting on the opposite side of a pristine, dark oak desk, Sherlock had his brother's entire business life laid out for him on a silver platter. Thick stacks of neatened paperwork signified the amount of grunt work that had been pushed off onto him. A heavy, gold-plated name tag on his desk as a new hire signified nothing else but the wealth their government possessed. The lack of personal effects signified how _boring_ his brother was as a person –

Drum. Drum. Drum.

Sherlock inhaled his pride. His nose was turned up with a frown like he smelled something sour, because when it came to Mycroft, there was no telling how long he could hold his breath. He wasn't going to answer.

Which just begs the question: when is Sherlock like an angry stroke of red? When his brother asks about this year's collateral damage. Like that's all he ever brought along with him.

“… Let's try that again, shall we? How much do you need.” Mycroft must have been burning up inside to tell him to take his feet off the chair – teeth grit together.

“Are you telling me you don't already know?” Sherlock sounded incredulous. “As if you haven't been keeping tabs on me this entire time. Oh – but, conveniently enough, the one time I do find myself in need of your assistance, you don't answer your phone.”

Mycroft always answered his phone. _That_ was the issue.

“I won't ask again, Sherlock.”

Sherlock took a long time to examine the way his fingers rode over the jewels embedded in the curl of his armchair. He counted the ticks of the clock for a good while, trying to force it out of himself. “Fifteenhundredpounds.”

It was tougher for Sherlock to admit than one would suspect; it showed just how deep of a hole he needed to be dug out of, and if there was one thing he didn't want, it was _help._

He glanced up.

Mycroft looked tired and fed up with the burden Sherlock had brought along with him, and this look was exactly what Sherlock didn't like about accepting – let alone seeking – Mycroft's help. You could never have one without the other.

Before he could say anything patronising, Sherlock raised his eyebrows in suggestion. “Perhaps if I had access to the family funds...”

“Oh, brother mine, you'll have to give me a reason to do that.”

Apparently the looming threat of an early death wasn't enough. Sherlock was getting frustrated, because he knew what Mycroft was suggesting – the same thing his entire family had been suggesting up until he left, and the same thing Mycroft always kept open as an option for him. It was part of the reason why Mycroft always forced cell phones onto him, in case Sherlock ever wanted to run back into his family's loving, money-filled arms: “I'm not going through rehabilitation.”

“In exchange for your debt to be paid off, you will.”

“… Nah.” If a grown man could sound any more childish, Sherlock would love to meet them. “The money is well enough, thanks.”

“Well, from what I remember, you told mother that you didn't want her money.”

“I _told her_ she shouldn't support a drug habit. There's a difference.”

Mycroft laughed just then, sounding absolutely tired of it. He rubbed his temples and leaned forward on his desk, no doubt thinking of where he wanted to start laying into him. Sherlock had to admit, if there was one thing his brother wasn't, it was stupid. “If you don't want help, then why are you here?” Sherlock didn't answer. “At any point you could have visited a soup kitchen or homeless shelter, yet you refuse.”

“Because I am not like them, Mycroft.”

“You don't have a house, nor a job, and you're starving half the time. I wouldn't consider you too different.”

“I would. I've everything I need except a consistent income, and without a consistent income I am unable to afford a flat.”

Mycroft's face smoothed out, and that's when Sherlock knew he was really at his wit's end. “I am done going in circles with you, Sherlock. The offer still stands as it always has: sign yourself into rehabilitation, and your _consistent income_ will be returned to you.”

“Why do that when I can continue doing as I wish,” Sherlock asked blithely.

“That is for you to figure out.”

He pretended to contemplate this for a moment, taking the time to stand up and circle around Mycroft's office to the door. He backed up against it with his hand on the gold handle. “You just want me working special units, don't act like you've got any other motive.”

“Just think about it.”

“I already have.” Conversation over. He opened the door with a flourish and the stale smell of old books and whiskey hit his nose. On his way out, Sherlock threw over his shoulder, “Tell mum I say hi, would you?”

“You could call, you have a phone.”

“ _Had_. A phone.”

Mycroft smiled tightly at him and he suddenly felt exposed.

Sherlock let the door slam behind him.

*********

Sherlock stared down at the water flowing underneath the bridge. He stood with his elbows resting on the railing, enjoying the last pulls of a cigarette as he contemplated his options.

He had very few of those. Options.

Perhaps he could just flee the country and never come back. He scoffed to himself and rubbed the butt of his cigarette into the ground, wind tousling his hair in the most annoying way. He brushed it to the side.

A few sets of footsteps passed behind him every so often, thunking down the wood planks. He didn’t pay any attention to them. Not until minutes later, when a particularly slow pattering of footsteps stopped right next to him. Victor leaned forward on the railing, mimicking Sherlock’s pose as he squinted in the sudden sunlight. Clouds passed back over seconds later.

Neither of them spoke. Sherlock swallowed thickly as he watched a stray leaf twirl its way down the stream.

“So, I’ve been doing some thinking over the last couple days,” Victor said. “And I don’t like to hold grudges.”

“That’s stupid of you.”

Victor gave him a look. “I don’t like to hold grudges because they aren’t productive. Does this mean I’m okay with the fact you got me kidnapped and almost shot in the head? _God no_ , though I do think an apology is in order.”

“If you’d have let me finish my thought last time, you’d have already gotten your apology.” Victor did not seem impressed. Sherlock tried again, this time his voice going soft. “But, I suppose now is fine. I’m sorry, Victor, that my problems so thoroughly seeped into your life.”

“Thank you. I just wanted to clear the air between us, because I don’t often get angry at people like that.”

“You don’t often get kidnapped by the mafia, either.”

Victor scoffed a laugh. “No I suppose not.” 

“You made me realise something, just now.” Sherlock eyed him up from the side to gauge his reaction. “Grudges _are_ rather unproductive, so I’ve decided on a way to get me out of all this mess. And to keep me out of it.” He kept his voice cool and detached in fear of coming across too soppy. Victor played along, though the lilt in his voice teetered on amused.

“Does this mean I’ll no longer be running the risk of bodily harm, then, being around you.”

“No promises.”

Victor smirked. “That’s what I like to hear.”

*********

A couple hours later, cramped in a telephone booth, Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number. He answered.

“… Hello.”

Sherlock didn't say anything for a couple seconds after Mycroft picked up, pursing his lips. Static buzzed between them, stretching on and on and on and – Sherlock tisked, angrily hanging up the phone. Something about Mycroft always just set him off. He turned as if to storm out of the phone booth, but indecision made him flounce back around to dial again, frustratedly punching at the keys.

The dial tone made his stomach churn; Mycroft was letting it ring on purpose.

Then he answered.

Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek, holding himself back now that he finally found the courage to speak.  He forced himself to keep his composure. “Mycroft.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m calling to inform you that I...” He sighed, loud and put-upon. Nothing could ever be easy for him, could it? “I've... come to a decision.” More silence from the other end of the line. “I'm going to sign myself into a rehabilitation centre tomorrow morning.”

Mycroft pushed himself away from his desk, and Sherlock could almost hear the weight dropping off his shoulders in that moment. “I'm proud of you, Sherlock. I am.”

With the phone pressed firmly against his cheek like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground, Sherlock hummed all non-committal, like it didn't mean the entire world to him.

“You can tell mother whenever you like, you have a phone booth in front of you. And I'll wire money into your account and have your card brought to you tonight.”

It was only after Sherlock hung up the phone that he mumbled into the receiver, “Thank you.” In that moment, the money was the furthest thing on his mind.

He looked out the foggy glass window beside him and wiped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's done! Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed!


End file.
